


And Baby Makes Five

by LittleMousling



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: A LOT of Pregnancy Kink, Also Not Mpreg, Becoming a family, Catholic Schoolgirl Uniform, Emotions, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, OT3, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, So many emotions, having a baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 18:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12847275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: They've been living together for two years when they decide to have a baby.





	And Baby Makes Five

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moogle62](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Order For Me, Something Delicious](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12107763) by [LittleMousling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling). 



> I workshopped the plot of this with [moog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62) and you can safely assume that any bits you particularly like were her idea.
> 
> This is a loose sequel to [Order For Me, Something Delicious](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12107763) and you will probably enjoy it most if you read that first, but it works on its own.
> 
> Massive thanks to [electr1c_compass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/electr1c_compass) for invaluable arc assistance!

    1. The first attempt

“I don’t have to be here for this,” Lovett says, not for the first time. “It’s not like it’s gonna happen on the first try.”

“It could,” Emily reminds him. “But also, we want you there. You’ve seen us do a lot more than just try to get pregnant, you know.”

Lovett makes a face. “I’m not objecting to the visual. I’m just—extraneous. I could be doing other things.”

He knows it’s fishing for comfort when he says it. So does Emily, but she comforts him anyway. “You’re not extraneous,” she says. “You’re part of this. We want you there.” She knocks her shoulder against him. “Would it make you easier for you if I order you to?”

Yes. “No.” Her shoulder’s warm, and he lays his head on it. “I’ll come willingly.”

“You come willingly to my orders, too,” she says. That’s true enough.

“I’ll—” He rolls his lips into his mouth. “Thank you for including me,” he says, finally, because it’s the truest thing. 

Emily kisses his hair. “Always, puppy. So—take my spot.” 

Emily usually sits up by the corner of the bed when he and Jon are doing their thing; it lets her direct or just admire, she always says. It feels sort of pleasing and powerful to sit there, at least, even if he’s nervous under his skin about the whole thing. Being included. He wants to be, obviously he—it’s going to be _their_ baby, they’d had a whole damned series of family meetings about it, all of theirs, but. But it’s still Jon and Emily’s baby, no matter what they say. It’s still always going to be that, too. So. It makes him feel extraneous. 

“Should I put on something fancy?” Emily asks him, blatantly trying to force him to include himself. “What do you think? You only have first-attempt sex once, right? I could do that pink thing he bought in Paris.”

“He does like the pink thing.” It’s a cute pink thing, and it’s mostly just a gauzy top bit with matching panties, so it doesn’t exactly slow Jon down. “Yeah, do that. Do you think pink lingerie guarantees a girl?”

She laughs. “My boyfriend, the gender essentialist,” she says, and comes over to kiss his temple. 

Jon runs late; she’s lounging on the bed in the pink thing, flipping through a magazine and reading out interesting bits to Lovett, when he comes in. “Oh, hello,” Jon says, grinning at them, leering at his wife. “Very nice.”

“Mm, you’re late, I think I’m not in the mood anymore,” Emily says. It’s not a bad deadpan, which makes it all the better when Jon grabs her by the ankles and drags her down the bed and kisses her until she’s giggling. “Okay, okay, maybe I am.” She wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. “Carry me back up or my puppy will be too far away.”

He knee-walks them onto the bed like that, awkward, almost dropping her, and pauses to dip them both so he can lean in and kiss Lovett. “Hey, babe.”

“Save it for your wife,” Lovett tells him. He can’t wipe the smile off his face. They’re just always so—he never gets tired of being with them, not ever. He keeps waiting for it, and it never comes. “Don’t let me distract you from the plan or we’ll never have a kid.”

“Very little could distract me from the plan,” Jon says, shifting his gaze back to Emily and settling her down among the pillows. “Hey, gorgeous. You wanna give this a try?”

She leans up and kisses him, hauling him down onto her, fingers digging into the muscle of his back through his shirt. This part, Lovett always enjoys. Jon’s so big, over her; he blankets her in a way that sends shivers through Lovett sometimes when he thinks about it. The contrast is—stimulating. 

“God, okay,” Emily says, breaking off and staring at Jon. “Put a baby in me.” 

Jon’s breath catches. He peels his shirt off, fast, and undoes his fly with shaking hands, pushing his jeans and his underwear just down around his upper thighs, the minimum. He scrambles backwards to pull her panties down and off, skipping all preliminaries. “God,” he mumbles. “God, Em, can I just—can we—”

Lovett shifts on the bed, and then reaches down and opens his jeans, because okay, this is very much working for him, actually. Jon looks desperate, pleading with his eyes, and Emily says, “Fuck, yeah, okay,” and he’s inside her just like that, working his way in with a few probing thrusts. Lovett can recognize their rhythms and their ways without even thinking about it now, but he rarely ever sees them like this, from zero to sixty in nothing flat. “Jesus, that’s good,” Emily says, tucking her face into Jon’s shoulder. “God, you’re so—you’re so hard already, how—”

Jon doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look like he _could_ answer. Lovett knows that expression very, very well; Jon’s worried he’s going to come, imminently. After forty fucking seconds. 

Lovett slips a hand into his briefs and starts jerking, because this is—yeah. This is gonna work for him, holy shit. “He really, really wants to knock you up,” he says, pitching it for Emily. “Like—he’s so fucking into this.” He swallows, and pulls his dick out so he can stroke it faster. Jon’s not the only one. There’s something about the—about the animal way Jon’s zoned out, about the way his body’s trying desperately to fill Emily up, about the way he’s braced over her with his pants still on, with his arms shaking with the effort of holding off, the way he’s fighting against the, the biological drive to—

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Lovett gasps, and comes, some-fucking-how, before even Jon does.

  


    2. Lovett wants in on it

“So,” Emily says, coming in and sitting down next to him on the couch. He’s scrolling through Twitter but not actually seeing any of it. “You—liked that.”

“Uh, yes. I mean, we all liked that, so I don’t know why you’re singling me out, here.”

Emily takes his phone out of his hands and clicks it off. “Because you were the observer and we were the ones fucking, so we were both kind of expecting to like it?” 

He shrugs. He wants his phone back; he wants something to do with the nervous energy in his fingers.

“So—do you want a go?” Emily asks. She sounds nervous, which is the only reason he understands her meaning right away: _do you want to try to fuck a baby into me_ , she’s asking.

That’s not it, not really. “No,” he says. “Um. Thanks for asking, I guess. I couldn’t—no.”

She’s silent, thinking. He twists his hands. A better person would help her out, here, but his heart is pounding and he can’t say it. He can’t say any of it. It feels too new and private. He can admit to it, but he can’t find the words himself. 

“So did you just turn a big corner on watching Jon fuck me, suddenly?” Emily tries, a laugh in her voice. He snorts and shakes his head. “Puppy, you gotta help me out here.”

He looks up at her, trying to put some of it into his face. He shrugs. It’s been a while since he’s felt this awkward talking through a scene idea with Emily. A year, maybe. Longer. The practice usually makes perfect, but they aren’t usually talking about things this visceral. About biology, about … about the way he wants to feel as integral to them as they are to him, and to each other. About the way he wishes he could be connected to them the way they’ll be connected to each other, soon.

“I’m not a mindreader,” Emily says, sounding frustrated, and then she sighs. “Is it the—that Jon was so, you know, um—”

“Animalistic,” Lovett offers. “I mean, that was crazy hot, but not—it’s more—you weren’t all wrong about—” His voice gives out. 

“Oh,” Emily says, slowly. “Okay, yeah. The baby stuff. We can still do that, puppy. Like, I mean, you could pretend to knock Jon up, instead, if that’s more, um, if that captures the spirit of it without the, uh, you know, the body would still be willing?”

He forces himself to speak up, now that it’s really on the table. Now that she’s given him a real opening. “That’s not exactly the way I’d want it to go,” he says. “If we did that. Which we could do.” 

He watches her from the corner of his eye, and sees her get it, a smile spreading across her face. “Oh,” she says. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. Yeah, we can—he can pretend to knock you up, too. If you want in on the fun.”

Her saying it, her making it sound so easy, makes it easy on him, too. His throat’s not tight anymore, his belly isn’t roiling. 

“Not if it’s—I mean, I don’t want to get in the way of the limited supply of babymaking material or anything,” he offers. “I know it’s a whole … thing. Biologically speaking.”

Emily sets his phone down and wraps both arms around him, her chest against his arm. “I love you,” she says. “You’re such a—I love you. Don’t worry about it. I’m only fertile, like, a few days a month. We can figure out a schedule. It’ll be our sister-wives relationship phase.” He laughs, and she giggles into his neck.

“Love you too,” he says, getting his near arm loose enough to wrap around her waist. “Can we, though—” He pauses, trying to sort through his thoughts. “I don’t want it to be too, um, real. Like with you and him. Just—some kind of stupid fantasy.” Something that won’t make him wish, too much, about the realities he can’t change. 

“Like what?” she says, which he could have anticipated, but doesn’t have an answer for. Nothing’s coming to mind—or, well, the only thing coming to mind is the aliens from Alien, and that’s definitely not a sexy concept. 

“Um. I guess there’s, what’s that movie called, Juno? That’s the only thing I can think of.”

Emily hums to herself for a moment, thinking. He can’t quite pick out the melody. It’s one of Emily’s most annoying habits, humming loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to be enjoyed. He decides not to call her on it right now, when she’s busy trying to give him what he wants. “Ohhh,” she says finally, and squeezes him tighter. “Oh my god, I know exactly the thing. You want to blow Jon’s mind?”

“Sure. Always,” Lovett says, because, well. Sure. Always. 

“Okay. Here’s the plan.”

  


    3. The schoolgirl prom night extravaganza

“The part I don’t get is, if it’s prom night, why am I wearing my school uniform?” Lovett asks. He doesn't need an answer; it's the verbal equivalent of smoothing the skirt down again. It hasn’t moved since the last time, but his hands just keep going to it. It’s so _short_ ; no matter the evidence in the mirror, he’s sure his underwear’s visible under it. Or, rather, the underwear Emily presented him with, which is definitely not his, and is definitely white cotton panties. 

“I would have chosen something black and lacy, myself,” Lovett had told her, and she shook her head.

“It’s a whole thing. Trust me on this one. Those and the skirt, that’s the whole fantasy right there. It’s all—” she’d waived her hands “—it’s about innocence and youth and stuff.” 

Lovett can get into that. Innocence? He can do innocence. 

Emily stands back to admire the whole picture, right down to the socks and the Mary Janes. Lovett feels a bit ridiculous, but he’s pretty sure Emily’s right that as soon as Jon sees him, he’s going to feel hot as hell. “He’s going to eat you alive,” she says.

“I mean, that’s an acceptable outcome.” He wants to tuck his hands in his pockets, but he doesn’t have any. He smooths the skirt again, and tugs on the cuffs of the cardigan so they almost cover the cuffs of the pressed light-blue shirt underneath. The shirt gapes a little where it stretches over his bra. He hopes Jon goes straight for the bra; it’s not the most comfortable piece of clothing in the world.

They hear the door downstairs open, and Emily goes down to help sexile the dogs—Pundit’s not very inquisitive, but Leo’s as fascinated by strange human noises as he is by tennis balls—and bring him upstairs. Lovett waits. He smooths the skirt again, and then again, and then sticks his hands into his armpits to try to stop from fidgeting any further. That’s when Jon walks in, of course, when it looks like he’s doing a Molly Shannon impersonation.

Jon doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice. He’s busy taking in the shoes, and the socks, and the legs, and the skirt. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he mumbles. He takes a step toward Lovett and stops again, like he’s not sure he can touch.

“I’m so glad you got us this hotel room,” Lovett says. He tries to keep the smirk out of his voice. _Innocence_. “I had such a fun time at prom with you, Jon.” 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Jon says again, much more fervently. “Holy shit.”

Lovett appreciates the admiration, but Jon needs to get with the program at this point. “I’ve heard you can’t get pregnant on the first time, so—”

There’s no warning before Jon jumps him; it’s like Jon moves across the five feet between them in a single bound, pushing Lovett back onto the bed and attacking his mouth. 

He’s heavy, and his teeth are an actual fucking danger, and Lovett doesn’t want any of it to stop. “Oh, Jon, wow,” he says, trying for breathy and earnest, landing somewhere around horny. “Jon, I’m so excited and, and nervous to finally know what it’s like. You’re going to be gentle with me, right?”

Jon makes a truly undignified noise, his hips grinding into Lovett’s. They’re not in a great position on the bed; Lovett’s legs are hanging mostly off it, and he thinks Jon might have a foot on the floor, which is nice for bracing but not the most comfortable. 

He wriggles out from under Jon, working up closer to the pillows. “Jon, tonight is supposed to be a little romantic,” he tries, putting a hand on Jon’s forehead when Jon moves to come right at him again. “Can we slow down?” 

In the corner, Emily giggles.

“I—yeah,” Jon says. He sounds dazed. He looks drunk, which is gratifying as hell. Emily really knows her stuff. Lovett shouldn’t question her expertise on the subject of blowing Jon’s mind. “Yeah, of course, babe. I’m just so—wow. Wow.” 

Gratifying as _hell_. “You can kiss me more,” he says, and bats his eyelashes. “I like it when you kiss me, Jon.” 

Jon’s less terrifyingly toothy this time, but just as enthusiastic. His hands start wandering, but tentatively, up just under the hem of Lovett’s cardigan, on the thin fabric of his shirt. “Can I—” he asks, and Lovett pulls the cardigan off from the wrists, wriggling out of it. 

“You can touch me,” he says. “We’ve done that before. Don’t you remember the, uh—” He glances at Emily, who mimes a steering wheel. “The backseat of your car?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Jon says, and bites the sensitive side of Lovett’s throat. “Jesus, Jesus.” 

The bed moves as Emily climbs onto it. “Don’t mind me,” she says. “But, uh—Jon, are you gonna need a cockring for this?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, no hesitation at all. “Please.” He’s staring at Lovett, at his mouth and then at the gap between the buttons over his bra. “I’m—this is—”

“Mm-hm,” Emily says, and hands him the one with the snaps for quick removal. “You need help with that?”

“Please don’t help,” he says, sitting back and opening his fly. Lovett watches, feeling very smug indeed, as Jon pulls out his cock, which is harder from five minutes of making out than Lovett’s ever seen it. “Where did you even get the uniform? No, don’t tell me, I just—wow.” 

Emily shuts the nightstand drawer and settles back against the pillows. “Don’t let me interrupt,” she says. “I think you were about to get some under-the-sweater action from Mary Lou Lovett here.” 

“I’m not that kind of girl,” Lovett says, and then, “No, wait, I definitely am. Come back here and feel me up, Favreau.”

Jon groans and tucks himself back in. It looks like it hurts; it looks like he likes it. Anyway: Mary Lou would expect him to stay decent until she’s ready to see it. 

Jon tucks his face into the center of Lovett’s chest, just pressing in and breathing. “You smell so good,” he says. “You feel so good.” 

Lovett presses his shoulders in, trying to squeeze Jon between the cups of the bra the way Emily does with her tits. It doesn’t really work, but Jon’s busy, anyway, carefully untucking Lovett’s shirt and pushing it up in tiny increments. It’s ticklish in the best way, shivering through Lovett and making him want more. “You can unbutton it,” he says. What would Mary Lou say, here? “I trust you.”

“Oh, God,” Jon says, muffled, and his fingers find the lowest button, and then the second, popping them free. He spreads his big hand across Lovett’s belly and Lovett feels, for a moment, the deep and painful wish that Jon really could knock him up, that he could carry something of theirs inside him like that, and nurture it. 

Jon pops another button, and Lovett goes back to thinking about just how good this fuck is going to be. 

Emily’s tucked up next to them in her customary watching spot. She moves around, sometimes, but mostly she gets comfy against the pillows by the nightstand. He sometimes feels weird about how much he likes it, her watching them, but he does—it makes him feel submissive even when they aren’t really playing. 

They’re certainly playing now, though. “Jon, touch me.” He pulls one of Jon’s hands up higher, both of them rucking his shirt up. “I know you can make me feel good. Make me want to—you know.”

“We don’t have to,” Jon says, and he sounds like he means it. “If you don’t want to. We can wait.”

“You’re going to college,” Lovett says. He’s got a whole backstory for Mary Lou developing. She’s probably a junior, staring down a whole year without Jon, worrying he’ll dump her when he meets some college girl. Which he probably will, actually, but that’s neither here nor there. “I don’t want to wait any more. Don’t you want to?”

“God, yes,” Jon whispers. He kisses Lovett’s neck, and his hand slides higher, up under the cup of the bra. He thumbs Lovett’s nipple, just once—it’s never been Lovett’s thing—and touches the rest of his chest instead, pushing the bra up to make room.

Lovett wriggles, and starts undoing buttons from the top down. “You can take it off, Jon. If you want.” 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Want to see you.” He gets a hand under Lovett’s back to unhook it, too smooth by half, the almost-forty married Jon and not the fumbling teenager. Lovett decides to let it go. Verisimilitude can only get them so far, and the bra is uncomfortable. 

He sits up and struggles out of the shirt and the bra; the two are going in opposite directions on his body, which requires more wriggling than he ideally wants to engage in. Jon’s no help; he’s just staring, at Lovett’s chest but mostly, now, at the little plaid skirt. “Eyes are up here,” Lovett mumbles, but Jon doesn’t hear him. Emily does, and she stifles a snicker. 

“I heard,” Lovett says again, “you can’t get pregnant the first time. And anyway, condoms cause diseases.” Jon winces. “Too far?”

“Too far,” he says. “Unless you want me to work my rage about abstinence-only sex ed out on you, but I don’t think that’s the vibe we’re attempting, here.”

“Another time,” Lovett says, grinning. “Anyway, where were we? You’re allergic to condoms?”

He laughs. “Yeah, totally, baby. Even those sheepskin ones. Terrible allergy. But don’t worry, you can’t get pregnant the first time.”

“That’s good,” Lovett says, pulling him down with an arm around his neck. “Although it wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it? I mean, you love me, and I love you, and—”

Jon shudders, hips jerking up against Lovett’s. “ _Oh,_ ” he says, glancing up at Emily. Whatever look she gives him makes his fingers squeeze down on Lovett’s side. “Oh, God. Okay. I mean—you won’t, anyway, because it’s your first time, but it, um, it wouldn’t be so bad if I, if I put a baby in you.” 

Lovett needs this fucking skirt off _now_. Or not off, but whatever needs to happen to get Jon’s dick in him, it needs to start happening. “Show me what it’s like,” he says, panting. “Please, I want to feel it. Feel you.” He wants to feel what Emily felt, when Jon was so overwhelmed with lust for her, for putting a baby in her. 

Jon groans and strokes a hand up Lovett’s thigh, up and up under the skirt. Lovett shivers at the feel of his hand, rough, dragging along Lovett’s skin. Jon shifts off of Lovett so he can flip the skirt up over Lovett’s belly, baring Lovett’s cock tenting out the underwear. It must look obscene; Lovett can’t see very well with the way Jon’s curled over him, staring. “Jesus fuck.” 

“Your swearing is extra Catholic today,” Lovett says. “Is it the outfit?” 

Jon doesn’t answer except to wrap his mouth over the head of Lovett’s cock through the cotton. “Oh, fuck,” Lovett says. He plants a foot on the bed so he can shove up towards Jon’s mouth; it’s warm and not-enough and a filthy tease of a feeling. “Fucking—please. Jon. Jon, you can, you can just fuck me, please just fuck me.” 

“Lube,” Jon says, muffled against Lovett’s dick, and there’s a warm, happy noise from Emily, who doesn’t reach for the nightstand. 

“You don’t need it,” Lovett tells him. “I’m—I’m really wet for you, Jon.”

Jon might get it immediately, or maybe he gets it when he slides his fingers under the edge of Lovett’s panties and finds the slick, worked-open rim of him, waiting to be fucked. 

The panties don’t survive Jon’s discovery. Lovett’s never heard such a satisfying ripping noise in his life. 

Jon shoves Lovett’s legs back, yanks his ass into the air, and pushes in, smooth and steady. Lovett thinks, _just like he did with Emily_ and it’s a weirdly, devastatingly hot thought. 

It’s too fucking good, the way Jon’s driving into him already. His hips are coming up to meet Jon’s, automatic and easy, the rhythm of three years of practice. Jon grabs him by the thighs, fingers too tight, hauls him upward until Lovett can’t move anymore, until he just has to _take_ it. Lovett gasps, feeling suddenly boxed in and vulnerable and at Jon’s mercy in a way that makes him want to come right fucking then. 

He tries to get back into character. “That’s—oh, fuck, Jon, that’s it. That’s what I wanted. You’re, fuck, you’re my first, you’ll always be my, my first time, I’ll remember this forever, I—” Lovett can’t think, because Jon’s panting into his neck, has him folded so much that Lovett’s not going to need to go to yoga with Emily at all this week. 

Jon’s fucking up into him and the skirt’s crushed between them, and Lovett hooks a leg over Jon’s shoulder to try and keep himself up. He braces one hand against the headboard and gets the other on his dick, because Jon’s not letting up and this is the best fuck Lovett’s had in weeks. “You should try to knock me up all the time,” he says, and it’s barely a joke—isn’t a joke at all, maybe, when Jon groans and speeds up even more.

“Emily,” Jon whines, and Emily climbs down, dodging Lovett’s foot, to unsnap the cockring. “Oh, fuck, that’s,” Jon says, and Lovett fists himself faster, almost there.

Jon comes in him, keening, body shaking against him.

Jon’s come in him before, but this time it feels—different, special, and when Emily leans over him to whisper, “he probably put a baby in you,” Lovett’s hips jerk up and he comes all over Jon’s chest. 

They lie there for a long minute. Lovett’s skirt is probably going to need to be dry-cleaned, he thinks, because his brain is empty of everything else. He hopes Emily takes it. He doesn’t want to have to look anyone in the eye while he hands over a plaid schoolgirl skirt so the come stains can be cleaned off. 

“So,” Emily says, and he can hear the smirk in her voice. “That was fun.”

“Uh, yeah,” Jon mumbles. “Fun. Lobotomy-esque.” 

Lovett huffs a laugh and puts a hand in Jon’s hair, pets his scalp. “Ditto.”

“You guys stay here and grow your brains back,” Emily says. “I’ll warm up some lasagne. I’ll wake you up in twenty. Jon, you might want to—” Jon sighs, and pulls out, not moving an inch more than he has to. “Yeah, okay. I’ll wake you up.” 

Jon’s too heavy on Lovett. He doesn’t care. He feels a little bit like he could stay here forever, sated and warm and filled with the nice daydream that he and Jon and Emily could have a baby like this, too.

  


    4. Emily has a bun in the oven

They make themselves walk away from the pregnancy test while the timer counts down. “We could, um. Tic-tac-toe?”

“That’s what you want to do? Tic-tac-toe? We have five—four now—four potentially life-changing minutes, and you want to play tic-tac-toe?”

“Well,” Jon says, shrugging. “It’s quick.”

“Doing shots is quick,” Lovett retorts, and then regrets it, glancing at Emily. “Sorry.” 

She rolls her eyes at him. “You’re both terrible at this,” she says. “And we’re probably going to have to do it a bunch more times. Just because my period’s late doesn’t mean this is it. It takes the average couple—er, the average—look, it usually takes like a year or something, I think.”

“Oh, God,” Jon says. He has a look in his eye that Lovett suspects is him picturing a year of dirty, frantic, let’s-get-pregnant sex with both of them. It’s not a bad picture for Lovett, either. 

“We should have just made out,” Emily says, because she’s the sensible one. “But the timer’s gonna go off in like—mmph!” Jon’s kissing her, grinning, and Lovett wraps his arms around both of them, ready for the inevitable moment when Jon switches over. Jon’s very predictable in his equity of affection. 

Jon’s kissing Lovett when the timer goes off, and they both jump a foot in the air. “Okay, successful distraction,” Lovett concedes. “Good job, Emily.”

They troop back into the bathroom, Emily in front. She grabs it, and then curls her hand around it, so they can’t see.

“Well,” she says. “I guess we’re just gonna have to redouble our efforts to knock Lovett up.” They’re quiet, not quite getting it. “Because we succeeded with me already.” 

Jon whoops, and grabs her around the waist, lifting her up. She wraps her legs around him. “Hang on, hang on,” Lovett says, and gets an arm under one of her thighs, and then his shoulder. “C’mon, Favs, get with the program.”

Favs shifts Emily onto his arm—his shoulder would, Lovett has to admit, probably mean she’d be at a strange angle—and she ducks as they walk her out of the bathroom. “We have to celebrate,” Jon says. “How are we going to celebrate?”

“In a low-key way that acknowledges the frequency of early miscarriages?” Emily says, drily, and then, “We could go to Guisados. I could murder a burrito.” 

“Eating for two!” Lovett says. “The best way to live. I’m jealous.”

She leans down to kiss the crown of his head. “Put me down before you drop me, boys, I’m carrying precious cargo or whatever.”

“I’m hoping it’s actually a baby deer,” Lovett says. “A really cute one that speaks English.”

Emily detangles herself from his shoulder and slides carefully down Jon’s side. “Please hope for a normal human baby, darling. I don’t want hooves in my uterus.” 

“You never let me have what I want,” Lovett says, and pulls her in tight to his side. He’s grinning wide enough to stretch his cheeks painfully. He feels giddy. “Never let me have a little baby Bambi when I want one.” 

She laughs, and pulls him in just as tight. Her voice is pitched just for him when she says, “I wish it were you, too, you know. If it could be, I’d want that.” 

There’s no way to get his feelings across right now with words; he’s fresh out. He’s so in love and so happy and so wistful, but he can tuck the wistfulness down and just be here for this. For their _baby_.

Emily loosens her grip on him and Jon swoops in to pick her up again, like he can’t help it. “Let’s order burritos in,” he says. “I want it to just be us tonight.” 

“Yeah,” Emily says, and pulls Lovett’s head against her chest, threading her fingers through his hair. “That sounds good.”

***

Jon brings Emily breakfast in bed. It wakes Lovett up, just enough to see the absurdly overloaded plate of sausage and eggs and toast and fruit, before he groans and goes back to sleep. 

He wakes up alone, rolls over into the cool space where they aren’t, and wanders downstairs for leftovers. The eggs are gone, but he makes free with the sausage and the pineapple and cantaloupe. The coffee machine is clean and inviting, but it’s so much easier to grab a diet Coke from the fridge and go find his laptop.

Emily and Jon come in twenty minutes into his Twitter spiral, panting and sweaty, just the way he likes them. He grins up at them from his spot on the couch. “Running for three?”

“This guy,” Emily says, gesturing at Jon, “tried to tell me I should take it easy.”

“Ooh, that’s not a good idea,” Lovett says, laughing. Jon’s face scrunches up in acknowledgement. “Did you kick his ass?”

“For four miles,” Emily boasts. “Didn’t I, Jon?”

Jon slides down against the wall, pulling up his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. “Yes, dear.” To Lovett, he adds, “It was just this side of emasculating.”

“Emasculated is a good look on you,” Emily says, and crouches down to kiss him. “Very up my alley.”

Lovett smirks at them. “You could put him in my dress,” he offers. “He’d look good hobbled.” And he might tear it, which Lovett would not cry about. Emily loves that dress; Lovett only loves how much she loves it. He would cheerfully burn the damn thing. 

“Nice try, puppy,” Emily says mildly. “Come wash my hair for me.”

Lovett chucks his laptop onto the free end of the sofa and follows her. 

They have a good routine for this. It’s been years since Lovett’s paid much attention to Emily’s nudity level; she just strips, and sometimes he even folds up the clothes before dumping them on the counter. He does it today, because—well. Emily’s pregnant with their baby. She should have unwrinkled workout clothes. 

He strips, too, and drops his own clothes in a pile before he gets into the shower with her. Their master shower is stupidly large, with three showerhead options, one detachable. He gets that one going and hands it off to her, and then turns on the rainshower option. They may as well indulge. “There’s a drought,” Emily reminds him.

“Individual usage is barely a percent of the problem,” he says. “Industrial waste is—”

“Okay, okay,” she says. “Do the almond shampoo, Jon really likes how it smells.”

“Jon always likes how you smell,” Lovett says, but grabs the almond one and pours some into his palm. Emily steps out of the spray so he can massage it into her hair, rubbing her scalp until she’s sighing and leaning back against him. 

“That’s nice,” she says. “You want to wash while you’re in here?”

He takes a minute to scrub his own hair and body, while she rinses her hair out. They’ve tried him rinsing her hair but it usually ends in too much shampoo on her face, running past her eyes; this works better. 

She turns around and kisses the corner of his mouth, and his cheek. “Thanks, babe.”

“Anytime. Want me to shave your legs?” 

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Is that a request for a scene, or—”

“No, I just—” He shrugs. “You know, so you don’t have to bend down or anything.”

“You’re sweet,” she says. “No, I’ll do it. Thanks, though.” She pulls him into a hug, like she can’t help it. Sometimes he gets that feeling, too, like the affection he feels for her and for Jon will explode if he doesn’t do something with it. She lets him go, after, and tips her head towards the shower door. It’s a clear enough dismissal. 

Jon’s in the kitchen, setting out ingredients for some kind of real food. “Are you a pod person?” Lovett asks, poking at what he’s pretty sure is a leek. “Where did this even come from?”

“I bought it yesterday,” Jon says. “I thought, you know—we should be eating more greens, right? Folic acid and—I don’t know.” He has a recipe pulled up on his iPad, and Lovett scrolls through it. 

“Emily’ll like this,” Lovett says.

Jon looks pathetically hopeful. “You think so?”

There’s one of those explosions coming again. “Yeah,” Lovett says, tucking his forehead against Jon’s shoulder, breathing him in. “She’ll love it, are you kidding? You’re the best husband ever.”

“Mm,” Jon says. He tilts Lovett’s face up and kisses him. “Wanna chop some onions for me?”

“I could be persuaded,” Lovett says. “And then we should probably get some of that crap out of the garage like we keep talking about. What if Emily tripped?”

Jon’s face blanches. “We could do that first,” he says. “Do you think we should do that first?”

“I think you’re both being weird,” Emily says, coming into the kitchen and swatting Jon’s ass with a hand towel. “Is that Swiss chard?”

Jon smiles at her like the sun’s come out on his face. Lovett might be doing the same thing, if he paused to think about it. “Yeah, is that—do you like it?”

“I do,” she says, smiling back at them. “You dorks. I’ve decided you can keep it up, though, the coddling. I like it. Bring me this brilliant meal when you’ve finished it and maybe I’ll tell you how to _coddle_ me, instead, how’s that sound?”

Lovett knows a promising, toppy tone when he hears one. “That sounds great. Anything you want.”

“Mm-hm, puppy,” Emily says, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck the way she knows makes him go soft and fuzzy for her. “Anything I want. After lunch.”

  


    5. Something’s up with Lovett

“No,” Lovett says flatly. “Veto. I’m fucking exhausted, we’ve been doing too much already.”

“We’ve been doing the exact same stuff we always do! And we toured last month and the month before that—”

“Not to fucking England,” Lovett says. “I’m _tired_ , aren’t you fucking tired?”

Tommy glances at Jon. “Is he not sleeping, or—?”

“Okay, you can talk _to_ me like a regular adult human. Jon’s not my keeper.”

“Emily’s his keeper,” Jon says under his breath. Lovett would kick him, but he’s all the way across the room. Well. Four feet across the room, but that’s too fucking far. “He sleeps fine.”

“I sleep fine because I’m exhausted, because we’re overextending,” Lovett says. “Send Kander to England. Send Erin. Send Tim and Sean Hannity, I don’t care, I’m not going.” He can’t even find the energy to be angry. He’s just bone tired. 

Tommy gets up and puts the back of his hand on Lovett’s forehead. “You don’t feel feverish, but maybe go home and rest? We don’t need you today.”

“You need me every day,” Lovett grumbles, but it sounds amazing to go lie down. “Fine. Jon, drive me home.”

“We do need _him_ ,” Tommy says, but he doesn’t actively object when Jon gets up. 

Lovett’s quiet the whole ride back, his forehead against the car window where it’s cool. He doesn’t feel amazing, but he doesn’t think he feels any worse than he has all month. Longer, maybe. Everything has just been exhausting, that’s all. They’re building their empire; it’s not a 9-5. Even at home, he and Jon and Emily and often Tommy sit around for hours talking about what comes next, next, next. Anyone would be exhausted. 

He lets Jon bundle him into bed. “You don’t feel like you have a temperature,” Jon says, with a hand on his forehead.

“That’s because I’m not sick,” Lovett complains. “I’m just tired. How are you not tired?”

“Did you eat? I didn’t see you have breakfast.”

Lovett makes a face at him. “Ugh. Don’t talk about food.”

“You’re definitely sick,” Jon says. “Take a nap, okay? I’ll leave you some water and some of the Diet Coke without caffeine. I’m gonna go back to the office, but Emily should be back by five. I’ll text her and let her know you’re feeling run down.”

He’s not sick, but he’s not going to say no to being coddled. “Text me if anything big happens,” Lovett tells him.

“Sure, babe,” Jon says, and kisses his forehead. “Hope it’s just a passing cold or whatever.”

Lovett dozes, or thinks he’s only dozing, but when he wakes up, it’s getting dark out and Emily’s leaning over him. “Oh, hey, didn’t mean to wake you,” she says. “Good nap?”

He takes a long breath and tries to assess. He still feels bone-tired, sunk into the mattress by triple gravity. “I guess so. How was work?”

She climbs over him and sits up against the pillows, and puts her fingers in his hair. It feels nice, the soft way she’s stroking him. “No fires to put out. We’re planning for that big event next week, mostly. My new assistant’s really been going above and beyond for this client. She’s got potential, I think. I want to throw some other stuff at her and see how she deals with it.”

“Mm, that’s nice,” Lovett says.

“We’re gonna throw some dinner together, what are you in the mood for?”

Lovett winces. “I’m okay.”

“You haven’t been eating,” Emily says, gently. “Like, at all. It’s kind of—I don’t want to be a momma bird about it, but maybe we should at least take you to the doctor and make sure you’re okay.”

Getting out of this bed sounds unpleasant at best. “I’m fine,” he says. “I’ll have whatever you guys make. Thanks.”

She makes a skeptical noise. “We could get one of those home-visit doctors,” she says. “Please? Just so I don’t have to worry about you?”

He sighs and nods. That’s a compromise he can live with. He does kind of hate whatever this lingering nausea is. Probably acid reflux. He’s turning into his mother already.

He gets in another nap, and is woken up by Jon stroking his arm. “Hey—doctor’s here, you okay if I send him in?”

Lovett pushes himself up to sitting, mostly, up against the pillows. Jon wedges another one behind him. “Yeah,” he says. He feels better, after all that sleep. Groggy, but rested. “Sure, let’s get it over with.”

The doctor is a middle-aged, no-nonsense sort of gentleman. Lovett likes him immediately, even though he can’t seem to make him laugh. He takes Lovett’s temperature, checks his throat and his ears and his lymph nodes, and makes a series of check marks about the questions he’s asking, which Lovett can’t follow. 

“So,” the doctor says, skimming his checklist. “You’ve been nauseated for a while now, and exhausted. You’re sleeping fine, you’re peeing a lot, and your libido’s low. That about capture it?”

Lovett shrugs.

“I have a mobile lab in the van,” the doctor says, “but you’ve been napping most of the day, I hear. Before we get going on blood samples and setting up a fasting glucose test, I want to do one quick check we can run without poking you with anything.” He digs around in his bag and pulls out a sample cup. “Go fill that up for me, would you?”

“You mean urine, right? Because that’s not the kind of thing I want to get wrong,” Lovett says. He still doesn’t get a laugh.

“Yep. I’ll wait here.”

Lovett hasn’t gotten up to pee in hours; it’s easy to fill, and indeed to overfill, the cup. He pours out the extra, closes it, and rinses the outside before bringing it back out.

“Terrific,” the doctor says, which is definitely the first time anyone’s ever said that about Lovett’s urine. He digs around in his bag some more, and Lovett lets his eyes fall shut. He just wants a couple more minutes to nap, that’s all.

“Okay,” the doctor says. “Well, I guess that’s that, then.”

Lovett reluctantly peels his eyes back open. “Mm?”

“You’re pregnant,” the doctor says.

Lovett stares at him. The doctor stares back, and then waves a test strip at him. It’s the first sign of humor Lovett’s seen in him, and Lovett can’t say it’s particularly well-timed.

“Seriously, what is it?” Lovett asks.

The doctor shakes his head. “Seriously, pending a blood test, you’re pregnant. It happens. Not very common, of course, but from time to time. Unless—there are much rarer possibilities for these chemicals to be in your urine, if there’s no chance that you could be. But if you’ve been having unprotected anal intercourse as the recipient, then I’m fairly confident a blood test will just confirm it, particularly given your symptoms.”

Lovett blinks at him, and blinks at him, and blinks at him. Nothing changes. “No,” he says, finally.

“Yes,” the doctor says. “Do you want to discuss options? There are resources in the area if you don’t wish to—”

Lovett shakes his head, and the doctor stops talking. “I need to—I—Emily!” He shouts her name. “Jon!”

Footsteps pound down the hallway, and they burst in. “What’s wrong?” Jon says, glaring at the doctor. 

Emily, as always, is more diplomatic. “Is everything okay? Something we can help with?”

Lovett points at the doctor. “He says—fucking hell—you tell them.”

“Are you sure?” the doctor asks. “It’s strictly confidential unless you permit me to—” 

“ _Yes_ , tell them.”

“He’s pregnant,” the doctor says. He sounds so fucking calm, like there’s nothing remotely impossible or life-changing about it. Like it’s just—like it’s _fine_. It is _not_ fine. 

Emily and Jon look as shocked and startled as Lovett feels, at least. “He—what?” Emily asks.

“As I was telling Mr. Lovett, it’s not vanishingly rare by any means. It pops up in the literature with some regularity. I can forward a book recommendation, if that would be of assistance.”

“Uh, sure,” Jon says, absently. “He—from—I—”

“Oh my God,” Emily says. “You really did knock him up.”

“You’re the father?” the doctor asks. “Congratulations. I’ll leave some pamphlets about options—”

“I’m keeping it,” Lovett says, sharper than he meant to. He didn’t even mean to say it at all, he doesn’t think, but it bursts out of him, visceral. It’s impossible to imagine saying anything else, _doing_ anything else. “It’s—we wanted—it’s not unwanted.” He glances up at Emily and Jon, terrified suddenly. “Right?”

“Right,” Jon says, firmly, and Emily nods, climbs up onto the bed and throws an arm around Lovett's shoulders to hold him tight. He closes his eyes for a moment to just feel her against his side, comforting and familiar. 

The doctor is talking again. “Okay, then. Pamphlets on some other topics, and you should schedule with an OB-GYN soon. In LA there are at least a couple with some familiarity in male pregnancies. And you’re exhausted because your blood sugar levels are on the floor from not eating. There’s a few good options for the nausea; I’ll write you a scrip for Avomine, see if that works for you. If not, you can try one of the others.”

He pulls out a prescription pad and starts writing. “Folic acid—it’s late to start, but it doesn’t hurt. A couple of other vitamins, and make sure you’re drinking plenty of water. If you can’t eat, at least drink some nutrient shakes. You’re trying to run your body for two, now, you’ll need more to keep your energy up.”

Lovett takes the slip of paper and stares at it. “Okay.”

The doctor gathers up his things, leaves a couple of pamphlets on the foot of the bed, and turns to leave, Jon following him to show him out. Emily sits back and looks at Lovett. She’s staring at him; he can’t entirely read it. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“No,” he says. “I don’t know.” He can’t process any of this, especially when, now he’s been told, he can feel the low blood sugar, the way he’s starving and short-tempered. “How the fuck did this happen?”

Emily smiles at him, gentle. “I mean, I think we know how it happened.”

Jon comes back into the room, the dogs trailing him, and he pats the bed until they both jump up and crowd around Lovett. Lovett hauls Pundit up over his belly—his _belly_ , where there’s a fucking baby, apparently—and cuddles into her neck. 

“Is it—I mean—wow,” Jon says. “Wow, wow. Two babies.”

“Two babies,” Emily says.

“Two babies,” Lovett moans, piteously. “How am I going to explain this to my mom? How am I going to explain this to my _dad_?”

He lets Pundit go, and she pads over to Emily for head scratches. “We can tell them together, if you want,” Emily says. “And, uh. I guess my family and Jon’s, too.”

Jon’s eyes go wide. “Tommy.”

Fuck. “Tommy,” Lovett agrees. “Fuck. He’s going to think we’re the most irresponsible people in the world.” 

Somehow, it’s that thought that finally makes it all sink in, and at least it’s a good one, a stupid funny happy one. Tommy’s going to be so happy for them, and also certain to make pointed remarks about the benefits and joys of condoms and family planning. He’s going to be the best fucking uncle in the world, too. “Picture Tommy with a baby in each arm,” Lovett says.

“Picture Jon with a baby in each arm,” Emily says, and they both turn and look at Jon. “Oh—God. Guys. We’re going to have two babies.”

Jon clambers up onto the bed with them, dogs moving out of his way, and gets an arm around each of them. It’s an awkward group hug, no one placed quite right, but it’s everything Lovett needs right now. Jon’s neck is soft and familiar under his face and Emily’s arm is tight on his back and they’re going to have _two babies_. 

“I love you,” Emily says, quietly. “This is gonna be amazing. We’re just—jump-starting the family, that’s all.” 

They’re quiet for a minute, breathing into each other, and then Lovett can’t help himself anymore.

“Well,” he says, rueful. “I hope neither of us are carrying twins.”

  


    6. Double the pleasure, double the fun

“Oh fucking Christ,” Jon says. He’s staring down at Lovett like Lovett’s some kind of banquet and he’s not sure where to start. Lovett supposes he doesn’t blame him; he refused to let Jon touch him during most of the first trimester, both he thought he was just too tired for sex and then when he knew why he felt sick and unsexy. Now, though, the nausea has receded and he’s been left with a fresh and burning desire that feels like the first year they were together.

Jon strokes his hand over Lovett’s belly. Lovett’s barely showing; that apparently doesn’t matter to Jon Favreau, newly discovered pregnancy fetishist. 

“Are you going to end up subscribing to pregnancy porn?” Lovett asks, and Emily puts a hand over his mouth. Jon thanks her, and keeps staring. 

Lovett supposes now might not be the best time to mess with Jon’s focus. He’s pleased with the focus, all things considered. “Gonna knock me up again?” he says, but it’s too muffled by Emily’s hand.

It’s not as though they don’t all have the same thought, though. “Wish you could put a second baby in him, don’t you?” Emily says, mouth close to Jon’s ear. “Wish you could just keep putting them in us both.”

Jon shivers, and reaches past her for the nightstand. Lovett laughs against Emily’s palm when he sees the cockring, which has become Jon’s favorite toy ever since they started trying to get Emily pregnant. It used to live in a box in the closet; now it lives close to hand, easy access. 

“Good,” Emily says. “Because I want you after.” Jon whimpers. Lovett almost joins him. There’s something about the pregnancy hormones that’s making him—well. Even the straight sex, even the relatively boring versions of the straight sex, has started getting him hard. Almost anything gets him hard, all of a sudden. It’s like being 16 again, but with better stamina.

He pulls Jon down as soon as Jon’s got the cockring snapped on. Emily moves her hand so Jon can kiss him, and Lovett squeezes her thigh in thanks. “Go on,” Lovett says. “Get your baby-making cock up in me.”

Jon whimpers again. Jon whimpers a lot, now. It’s almost his default sound. Lovett hasn’t managed to get him to do it on air yet, but it’s a matter of time. “Tommy puts up with so much,” Lovett muses. They ignore him. Emily’s busy feeling up her husband’s ass, which Lovett understands is a distracting endeavor. There’s a lot back there to enjoy. 

“Can’t wait until you’re all big and everyone knows—everyone can see that I, that we,” Jon says, losing track of the sentence as he gets two fingertips into Lovett. Lovett doesn’t care to copy-edit him just at this moment; they can discuss the importance of completing independent clauses at another time. Right now, he just wants to rut up against Jon’s leg and feel Jon’s fingers curling into him. 

Emily seems to be on the same page as her husband, as usual. “Gonna have both of us walking around like that,” she tells him, and gets a hand around Jon’s cock. She’s slicking it, Lovett notes, shining it up with lube. God, he loves that woman and her practicalities. “Won’t you seem virile then, huh? Knocked up both of us one after the other.”

“Oh, God,” Jon says. “Oh, _God_.”

Emily laughs, soft and fond. “Fuck him,” she says. “Just like you fucked that baby into him. Go on.” 

Lovett’s pretty sure that despite two excellent years of living in sin with two kinky people, not to mention the truly high-libido honeymoon period that preceded it, this is the dirtiest they’ve ever gotten. He’s good with it. Good might not be a strong enough term for how he feels about it. “Is this gonna be weird in retrospect after the babies are born?” he mumbles, and then, “Never mind, I don’t care at all. Fuck me, Jon. With your, your virile sperm and—you know what, Emily should narrate, she’s better at it.”

“I am hugely better at it,” Emily agrees. She pushes on Jon’s ass and he obeys, lining himself up to push up into Lovett. Lovett makes it easy on him, tilts his hips and rocking up against Jon, until Jon’s sinking down into him. “That’s it, babe. God, puppy, you look so good taking it. Being so good for me, letting Jon fuck you for me.”

Lovett squirms, not sure if the words or the dick in him are getting him hotter. “Always for you,” he says, because she likes to hear him being genuine, even if it’s easier to keep it locked up in his head. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, puppy,” she says, and pets his hair. “You gonna be good for Jon? Take everything he wants to give you?”

He nods, frantic, and her fingers tighten in his hair so his movements pull against her. “Good puppy. Take his cock for me. That’s it, you’re so good for me.” Lovett groans and pushes back harder, hips rocking against Jon’s. Jon’s gone non-verbal; he’s just staring down at where his cock is entering Lovett’s body in—wonder, maybe, or awe, just overcome by it. 

Emily switches her focus over. “Go on, baby. You’re fucking him so good. Make him come and then I want you to fuck me, okay? Your two pregnant lovers—” she pauses and makes a face “—your two pregnant, uh, people, your two—” she takes a breath, tries again. “You knocked us both up and we both want you so much, babe, want your cock in us again and again. Want you—”

Lovett gasps, reaching down to fist himself. It’s too much, all of it—Jon’s crazy eyes and Emily’s dirty talk and the way he’s getting dicked down just the way he likes it. The way Jon’s fucking baby is in him. 

That does it; he squeezes Emily’s thigh, squeezes his own dick, and comes. Jon’s gaze finally comes up to his face as he does, still staring like Lovett’s amazing, like Lovett’s deserving of awe. 

Lovett could get used to this. “Go satisfy your wife,” he says, lazy now and feeling generous, and lets Jon pull out of him. 

“Scrub,” Emily says, and it’s her full Dom voice, the one Lovett doesn’t always get to hear her use on Jon. The one that makes Jon leap to attention—in this case, leap off the bed to the bathroom to wash, his groans audible over the running water. 

“Thank you,” Lovett says again, softly, just for her. She leans over and kisses his ear. 

“It’s my pleasure,” she reminds him. “You want under the blankets before he gets back?”

Lovett supposes that would be nice. She moves so he can get situated under the comforter, and doubles the other half over him in anticipation of wanting her own duvet coverage once she’s come. Emily’s practicality knows no bounds. He adores her. 

He adores Jon, too, trotting back from the bathroom with his cock bouncing in front of him and jumping up onto the bed. “Hi,” Jon says, giddy. 

“Hi, babe,” Emily says. “Come up here and service me until I’m done with you.”

“Oh, God,” Jon says, and covers her with his body. Lovett watches him, mostly idly, although—hormones again, he’s sure—this is sexy even though he’s come already and should, by rights, be moving on in his head to what he might be missing on Twitter. Instead, he’s glued to the way Jon’s ass is flexing, and his thighs, and his back, and—fuck, Jon looks good like this, like he’s made for this. 

Emily’s whispering to him; Lovett could make it out if he focused. He hears a few words: _baby_ and _full_ and, tantalizingly, _breed_ —he tunes back in, but doesn’t hear that one again. “Cock’s so fucking big in me, babe, fills me up so fucking right,” Emily’s saying. Lovett can identify with that, and with the way she sounds a lot more overcome now that it’s her on the receiving end of Jon’s rapt attention. 

He wonders whether Emily will let Jon come, once she’s gotten off once or twice or however many times she wants to use him for tonight. Sometimes she doesn’t, especially lately. “Save it up for us,” she’ll tell him, smirking, squeezing the base of his cock. “Want you to fill us up tomorrow. Or maybe Wednesday. We’ll have to see.”

Emily is an evil woman bent on their destruction. He and Jon toast to her wickedness all the time. It’s their favorite toast. Tommy doesn’t even bother to give them weird looks about it anymore. 

“Think I want,” Emily says, and pauses to breathe, dragging in long, stuttering breaths against Jon’s shoulder. “Jesus. Think I want you to come in me and lick me clean. You gonna give me what I want, babe?”

“Yes,” Jon says, fervently, and he reaches for the cockring. Emily grabs his hand. 

“I didn’t say you could take that off,” she says.

So very evil. Jon whimpers again. Lovett almost whimpers in solidarity. Coming through the cockring is—doable. Technically, doable. 

“Tell me what you need to make it happen,” Emily says, and Jon ducks his head down to her chest, hips stilling for a moment while he thinks about it. 

He tilts his head towards Lovett, finally, and Lovett guesses the answer before Jon says it. “Fingers,” Jon says. “Lo, can you—” 

Lovett climbs up over him, and gets the lube off the nightstand. It’s cheating, really, Jon getting milked when Emily could make him do it another way, but if she’s not objecting, he’s always on board for Jon’s relatively rare interest in assplay. 

Jon’s hot and soft around his fingertip, and Lovett’s easy on him, pushes straight in and starts fondling where Jon needs it most. Jon’s whole body reacts, shoving down into Emily and then up onto Lovett’s finger. “Do that again,” Emily says, but it’s more an aroused murmur than an order. He does it again anyway, just in case. 

He gets a second finger in because it makes it easier to crook his fingers and stroke Jon, and he lets his free hand stray down to Jon’s balls, tight against his body, and the base of his cock. His knuckles bump—something that must be Emily, and he pulls back from it and focuses higher up. 

“Love you—both—so much,” Jon groans. He’s close—he must be close. Emily’s come at least once, if Lovett’s any judge. He doesn’t know if she wants Jon to last longer, but she’d told him to come through the cockring, and Lovett’s going to make sure he comes through the cockring. Emily doesn’t like to be disappointed. They don’t like to disappoint her. 

He crooks his fingers harder, and faster, and rubs the soft skin of Jon’s perineum, and Jon fucks up into his pregnant wife, and that combination does the trick. Jon makes a pained sort of squeal when he comes, and Lovett shouldn’t like that so much, but he does, enough that he rocks his half-hard dick up against Jon’s thigh. Then, sighing, he gets out of the way so Jon can climb down and start eating Emily out. 

Emily’s lost all focus; her eyes are squeezed shut, and she’s not about to notice that Lovett’s up for another round, so he rolls over, closes his own eyes, and starts jerking off, running the whole thing back through his memory like a film strip. He can hear them, the slurping wet noises of Jon’s mouth, and the high, breathy sounds Emily always ends up on, punctuated with the occasional epithet. He never thought, at 16 or 25 or 32, that he’d be getting off to the soundtrack of cunnilingus, but this is where his life is, and he’s pretty fucking good with it. “Pregnancy hormones are amazing,” he mumbles, and hears a soft “amen” from Emily.

“A-fucking-men,” Lovett says, and comes.

  


    7. Not a cult

Emily hates her OB-GYN. 

“I hate him,” she tells Lovett, fourteen times a day. “He’s so fucking patronizing. And cold! His hands are icicles!”

Lovett tries very hard not to be smug. His, Dr. Sandy, is a sweetheart of a seventy-year-old woman who’s specialized in difficult pregnancies for twenty years—men and multiples and all kinds of other things Lovett carefully doesn’t ask about. She doesn’t tell jokes, but she laughs at Lovett’s, and she always tells him why she has to touch him or run a test. She says his baby looks hale and hearty and that she’s sure he’s going to have an easy time of late pregnancy. 

“Maybe you’ll get used to him,” Lovett says. “Anyway, his office is right next to yours.”

“Ugh, that was not the right way to choose a doctor. The lunch-hour appointments are the only good thing about his stupid, smug face.” 

Dr. Sandy is halfway across LA, a nightmare in traffic, but Jon usually drives him, so it’s just a different form of relaxation time from his perspective. It stresses out Jon, admittedly, but as the only person in their relationship who isn’t getting up to pee six times a night, Jon can suck it up.

Jon wanders in with Leo under one arm. “Lovett likes his doctor,” he says. “Why don’t you switch?”

“She only takes difficult cases,” Lovett says, primly. He knows he sounds like a priss and he’s fine with it. He’s a difficult case. As in life, so in pregnancy. 

Jon shrugs. “Might as well ask. Maybe she’ll take you on because Lovett’s already a patient.” 

“I don’t know if that’s a plus, exactly,” Lovett attempts, but he’s overruled, and six days later, they have back-to-back appointments they’re running late for. 

“The fucking 405,” Jon complains, rapping his knuckles on the steering wheel. “I’ll drive up and drop—who’s got the first appointment? Lovett?” 

“Yeah,” Lovett says. “Drop me and bring Emily in after.” It’s more work than it used to be to climb out of a car, but he manages it, and gets there a respectable seven minutes late. 

“Exam room four,” the receptionist tells him. “Gown in the drawer.”

Ugh. “My—partner’s coming up, can you send him in when he gets here?” He doesn’t know how to explain about Emily. “There’ll be two people. Both of them.”

The receptionist says “no problem” in a bored tone, and reaches for the ringing phone. Lovett goes into exam room four and starts to change into the awful gown. He hates the gown. The gown might be his least favorite thing about pregnancy. 

There’s a knock, and Jon and Emily come in. Emily takes the chair, and Jon perches by the door. “We told them I have an appointment, too, but they said I could wait in here with you,” Emily says. “They’ll just do me after, I think. But we have to change rooms for, like, hygiene reasons.” 

Lovett nods, and reaches for Emily’s hand. He’s become easy, lately, about the kinds of affection he didn’t seek out in the past. He’s always liked them, but there’s liking something and there’s—making himself vulnerable by asking for it, and the latter wasn’t always his forte. Now, with them, with their kid inside him, asking to have his hand held while he waits for a medical appointment seems like the easiest thing in the world. 

She squeezes his fingers, and the doctor comes in. It’s a routine checkup, but there’s a sonogram on this visit. It’s not the first; that doesn’t matter. Emily’s hand is tight on his, and Jon is watching him with so much devotion on his face, and the tiny, chirruping heartbeat fills the whole room. 

“Can we get another MP3?” Lovett asks, and Dr. Sandy nods and presses a button to start recording the audio. She gets them a good solid thirty seconds of it, and then turns off the monitor and hands Lovett a cloth to wipe his belly off. He hands it to Emily, and sees Dr. Sandy’s eyebrows go up for just a second before she clears her expression. 

“Okay,” Dr. Sandy says, throwing her gloves in the can. “You’re all set for today.” She turns to Emily. “Exam room two, please. I’ll be a few minutes.”

They troop over there once Lovett’s dressed again, and then Emily’s the one who has to get gowned up. Lovett helps her tie the gown in back, although it won’t fully cover her no matter what he tries. “Leave it, it’s fine,” she says, and he pats her back and leaves it. 

Dr. Sandy comes in with a clipboard. “Ms. Black Favreau,” she says, looking at it. She looks up. “You’re Mr. Favreau,” she says to Jon, and he nods. Dr. Sandy pauses, looking unusually stern. “A few moments with just my patient, please,” she says. 

Jon shrugs and Lovett follows him out into the hallway. He feels obtrusive; he’s not huge yet, but he’s big enough to feel in the way in any enclosed space, now. 

Inside the room, there’s a bark of hysterical laughter that can only be Emily’s. It quiets, and they wait another couple of minutes until the door opens. “Okay,” Dr. Sandy says. “Come on in.”

Emily’s exam is more extensive than Lovett’s; she’s more than a month further along, and it’s her first time seeing Dr. Sandy. Lovett reverses their positions, sitting by her head and holding her hand. Emily seems amused by something, but when he leans in to ask her, she shakes her head subtly, the corner of her mouth jumping like she’s fighting a smile. 

Dr. Sandy charms Emily as thoroughly as she had Lovett, easily amused and explaining everything she does. When she wraps up, she shakes all three hands. “Two very healthy babies. I’m looking forward to delivering them. Try to keep up with the leafy greens, or at least with the lean proteins, okay?”

They chorus okays at her, and she leaves the room. “Okay, what—”

Emily bursts into laughter, and they stare at her. Jon catches Lovett’s eye as though he hopes Lovett might know more than he does; Lovett makes a “who knows?” face back at him. 

Emily finally gets it together, wiping her eyes. “Sorry, I just—it’s such a reasonable—I can’t believe no one else has—she thought we might be in a cult! She wanted to make sure I knew,” and she cracks up again, losing the ability to speak.

“Oh, wow,” Lovett says, getting it. “Holy shit. Jon Favreau, the seductive cult leader. Knocking up all his followers.” He could get into this bit, this is amazing. He’s going to be making this joke for the rest of his life, he thinks. “Probably—probably told each of us we’re going to, like, bear the Messiah.”

Emily says, through peals of laughter, tears streaming down the sides of her face, “Blessed us with his—his—his holy seed.” She clutches at Lovett’s shoulders, laughing into his shoulder, holding him tight against her. Her laughs are getting louder, wilder, almost screams; Lovett’s slightly worried they’re going to get in trouble, but he just can’t stop laughing, and Jon’s going, now, too. 

He manages to withhold any further jokes—for now—and eventually they calm down enough for Emily to get dressed and for them to go out and handle their copays and get Lovett’s newest in a long line of prescriptions. He provides his email again for the MP3. “Already sent,” the receptionist tells him. “And you’re scheduled to come back on Thursday the 23rd at 6PM.”

“In the calendar,” Jon says. “Thanks.” 

Once they’re out the door, Lovett says, “We can’t—we’ll crash the car if we talk about this on the drive. Truce until we get home?”

“I don’t know if I’ll make it,” Emily says, and then, her nose wrinkling, “Actually, speaking of making it, I’m going to run back in and use their bathroom.”

“Ugh, me too,” Lovett agrees. It’s a long drive home, especially if he makes Jon pick them up Del Taco on the way. 

“I’ll pull the car around,” Jon says. “Take your time. Try not to get absorbed into any pregnancy cults.” 

“Breaking the truce!” Lovett shouts over his shoulder, and Jon grins and flashes him a thumbs up.

  


    8. Big as houses

November is the month Emily and Lovett give up on moving, as a concept. “I will never be comfortable again,” Emily groans. Lovett agrees entirely. 

“I can get you more pillows,” Jon offers, not looking up from his iPad. He knows perfectly well they’re both going to refuse. Pillows don’t help. Nothing helps. Life is suffering. 

Lovett is maybe, possibly, a little overdramatic. He blames hormones. He blames everything on hormones these days. Hormones have a permanent spot on the rant wheel. So does “uses for lanolin” but they’ve never landed on it. He’s pretty sure Tanya’s rigged the wheel. It’s probably for the best. If he never has to rub lanolin on his nipples, or anywhere else, ever again, it’ll be too soon.

He should probably get up and get the lanolin, actually. 

“Jon,” Emily says, interrupting his train of thought. “Are we out of those blue corn tortilla chips?”

He gets up to look, and comes back bearing a bag and a proud smile. “We have lots!” Emily accepts them and starts to lever herself up to sitting. Jon is not stupid enough to try to help; he waits to be asked. Jon has learned entirely new skills with each trimester.

Emily makes it, anyway, and collapses back against the back of the sofa. She’s enormous, much more than Lovett. She’s due by Thanksgiving; he might make it to New Year’s, although probably not. 

Lovett can see the moment when Jon decides to say it, but doesn’t have quite enough warning to stop him. “You look amazing,” Jon says, fervently. “I still just can’t believe you’re—I mean, both of you—that I _did_ that to you.”

Emily’s eyes narrow, warningly. “Babe, I love you, but if you touch me right now, these will be your last babies ever. You get what I’m saying?”

Lovett snorts. “That’s just gonna get him hotter, you getting all mean and toppy.” He knows he’s not wrong; Jon’s looking squirmier by the minute as they talk about him, as Emily glares. 

She gets a chip in her mouth and the taste, maybe, makes her relent. “No touching,” she says, “but if you want to jerk off over there, I’ll talk to you.”

Jon pulls his shirt off, and pushes his pants down. Their blinds have been strictly closed since the heady, hormonal days of July. 

It’s strange and jarring the way Jon’s body hasn’t changed at all. Lovett sees him every day, sees him naked every day, and it’s still odd to him that there’s a member of the household who isn’t swollen and waddling. Jon looks good in a way that was overwhelming all summer and now makes Lovett feel mildly resentful. They should have gotten him pregnant and ruined _his_ abs forever. 

It is, at least, much harder to feel resentful when Jon’s jerking off in front of him, looking wild-eyed as he stares at them. “Yeah, babe,” Emily says. “You did this to us, you fucking monster.” Her tone is sweet and it certainly seems to be working for Jon, even if it makes Lovett have to stifle a laugh. “You and your goddamn cock put these huge fucking babies in us. Are you proud of yourself?”

She pauses, and Jon says, breathy, “ _Yes_.”

“I bet you are,” Emily tells him. “I bet you’re very proud of the way you and your big, stupid cock bred these babies into us. I bet you can’t stop getting hard thinking about it.” That’s not a bet Lovett would take. He’s pretty sure Jon hasn’t been fully flaccid since April, at least not while he’s awake. He supposes that, of all the new obsessive kinks Jon could have picked up, this one certainly serves them all pretty well. 

There’s nothing artful to the way Jon’s jerking himself; it’s just fast and tight and needy. That’s hotter than anything, for Lovett. He could almost enjoy it enough to try to get off, too, except—nah. It’s just too much work, these days. Jon blew him on Monday; that’s plenty good enough. 

Emily’s interrupted herself to eat another chip. They gave up on the health food in October, mostly, except for vegetarian take-out. “You—” she pauses and swallows. “You set out to do this to us, even. You meant to knock us up. You tried over and over, didn’t you? And you kept trying even after. You’d be trying now if I let you. You can’t stop thinking about it.”

He whines, and Emily tells him, sharply, “Let me see you come.” He doesn’t disappoint, curling his head down to his chest and splashing his belly and his thigh. 

Emily yawns, and topples gently back over onto her side. “That was good, baby. C’mere and I’ll pet your hair.” 

Lovett wants _his_ hair petted, but he’s not about to try to get on the floor near her fingers, the way Jon’s doing. He rests his hand across Emily’s hip, instead, where she’s warm and soft, where his fingertips can touch the hard strangeness of her belly. 

“My mom says she can be here the day after the birth, if we want,” Jon says. “I was thinking give it a few extra days? Just—us time?”

Lovett can’t think about the birth—the _first_ birth—or he’ll go crazy with nerves. Emily answers, instead. “Yeah. A few days. We can always call someone local if we get overwhelmed. We know enough moms.” 

“I don’t understand how we know moms who’ve done this _twice_ ,” Lovett groans. “Some of them _more_ than twice. After this I am never letting Jon put his dick in me ever again unless it’s got about sixteen condoms on it.”

“Hey,” Jon says, mildly.

“I’m with Lovett,” Emily says. “Sorry, babe. This sucks.”

Lovett reaches up and over to high-five her. They mostly manage it. 

“I’ll still give you blowjobs,” Lovett tells Jon. “Don’t worry. Someday, I’ll be willing to give you blowjobs again. No condom required.”

Jon laughs ruefully. “Thanks, I think.” He sounds relaxed, from the fingers on his scalp or from the orgasm or both. There’s something delicious about having him naked on the floor while they lounge fully clothed on the sofa; it’s still not enough to tantalize Lovett, but he stores the image away for someday in the future when he can see his own cock again without looking in a mirror. 

He yawns, and then Emily yawns, and that makes him yawn again. “We should nap,” he says, tipping his head back against the couch. He feels like he’s already halfway there. 

“Yeah,” Emily says. It sounds more aroused than when she was talking Jon off. Lovett gets it; nothing gets him more excited than naps, these days. “We should nap.”

Lovett hears Jon getting up, kissing Emily, and then feels a kiss on his forehead. “Sleep tight, guys,” Jon says. “I’ll see you when you’re back from the land of Nod.”

Lovett thinks about responding in some way to that comment. It feels like more energy than it’s worth. 

Just as he’s drifting off, he hears Emily tell him, “I’m so glad we’re doing this together, puppy.”

He has soaring, joyful dreams.

  


    9. It’s happening

It’s just after brunch on a lazy Saturday when Emily suddenly sits bolt upright. As she hasn’t been able to do that without a lot of assistance and pillows in weeks, Jon and Lovett both set down what they’re holding, immediately. “Is it—”

“Yeah,” Emily says. “I think so, yeah.” She pets her belly. “That one was real. Yeah.” She’s had a few Braxton Hicks contractions—Lovett can’t stop saying Braxton Hicks to people, on little or no excuse, sometimes on the pod—but her face is certain. 

It’s about time, anyway. More like a week past time, which they’ve spent with near-daily treks to Dr. Sandy’s office to check that everything’s fine, to hear that it’s normal for first pregnancies to run long. “Normal for her,” Dr. Sandy amended, turning to catch Lovett’s eye. “That’s not gonna happen with you.”

They’ve got Dr. Sandy on speed-dial, and a go bag, but Emily holds up a hand before they can rush into action. “We have to time them,” she says. “If they’re way apart, there’s no point going anywhere.” 

Jon pulls out his phone and swipes to the timer app. “Should I try to time the rest of this one, or just wait?” He looks as nervous as Lovett feels. Emily’s the only one who looks calm, and it’s a strained calm. Lovett thinks she’s putting it on for herself, though, not for them. 

They wait, stiff with tension. Lovett plops into a chair and wipes the sweat off his forehead. Everything makes him sweat these days. He’s given up on leaving the house without a washcloth or something else in his pocket. 

“Oh-oh,” Emily says, sucking breath between her teeth. “Hit the—” Jon hits the timer, and Emily stays tensed up for long seconds, and then relaxes. “Fuck, I don’t love that.” 

_Only a couple hundred more to go, probably,_ Lovett thinks but absolutely does not say. He also doesn’t try to get her started on Lamaze breathing, because he’s pretty sure she’d be willing to hit a pregnant person for something like that. He just stares at the timer.

She squeaks in discomfort again at 14:38. “Okay,” she says, when her breathing’s back to normal. “No point calling Dr. Sandy yet except to let her know. Jon, can you—?” He nods and pops out of the room with his phone.

Emily flops back against the back of the couch. She looks tired out already, and it could be hours and hours of labor. It could be _days_. Lovett pushes himself out of the chair—it only takes him three attempts—and moves over to her, settles down at her side. “Hey,” he says. He takes her hand in his and squeezes it. “It’s happening.”

She closes her eyes, sighs out a breath. He can’t read her expression, but he can see the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “It’s happening,” she says.

“It’s going to be wonderful,” Lovett says. “Our baby. Our first baby.” He leans into her, as much as his body will let him, and runs a thumb across her cheekbone where she’s got a wet streak now. “Don’t cry, please, Em.”

She smiles, just a little. “Don’t tell me what to do, puppy.”

That’s his Em. “I love you,” he says, soft. “I can’t wait to hold our baby, can you?” She shakes her head. Her eyes are still closed, and her hand tightens on his, her face twisting into a grimace. He waits through it with her.

Jon’s still outside; Lovett can see him through the window, pacing, with the phone up to his ear. “I’m scared,” Emily says, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear her. “I’m not ready. Aren’t you scared?”

He’s terrified six minutes out of ten. “You’re ready,” he says. You’re the most capable person I’ve ever met. You’re a—you’re the HBIC, Em,” and she spots him a soft laugh. “You’re going to be the best fucking mom the world’s ever seen. Everyone knows that. Jon and I know that. I don’t have to be scared, because you’re here.”

Her hand tightens on him again, but this time it’s not a contraction. “Thanks, puppy,” she says. “I—can you text Jon for me? I just want—he can call her from in here, I just want you guys here with me.”

Lovett texts him, watches him pull his phone down to see it and come speed-walking inside. There’s enough room on Emily’s far side for him, and he settles into it, phone still up to his face. “On hold,” he tells them. “Em—” He’s spotted the tear tracks. “Does it hurt that much, baby?”

She shakes her head, _no_. He wipes his thumb over the tracks, and kisses her temple. “Okay. We’ve got you, sweetheart.”

They sit through four more contractions, and Jon’s brief call with Dr. Sandy, before Emily speaks again.

“This is it, you know,” she says. Her voice is hoarse; she’s been crying gently but steadily, not enough to make her breathing change but apparently enough to make her throat sore. “This is—this could be the last hour we have as just us.”

Jon takes a deep breath and kisses her shoulder, rests his cheek there. “Yeah,” he says. “It could be.” Lovett thinks that’s about as right a response as they could give, so he doesn’t add anything.

“I don’t want to fuck this up,” Emily says. “It feels—I never feel fragile about what we have, but I do right now.”

Lovett feels fragile about it—not as much this year as the year before, or the year before that, but enough. He can’t make himself take them as a surety the way Emily and Jon always seem to. A tiny voice inside him never stops telling him he’s a little bit on the outside—he’s the boyfriend, not the husband. But their certainty keeps the voice tiny, and intermittent.

“No,” Jon says, and it’s firm. “We’re not going to fuck it up. We won’t let ourselves fuck it up. Will we?”

Lovett shakes his head, and then remembers that Emily isn’t watching. “No,” he says. “I promise to do my best not to, I mean.”

“Me too,” Jon says. “Pact? We won’t fuck it up?”

Emily manages a wavering smile. “Okay,” she says. “Pact. God. I’m sorry, I’m so—it’s just—” She stops, gripping Lovett’s hand, eyes squeezing tight.

“Breathe, baby,” Jon says, so gentle that she takes the advice, getting the rhythm of the breathing. Lovett breathes it with her.

She opens her eyes. She looks at them each: Jon, sitting like Lovett used to, one foot up under him so he can turn towards Emily, giving her attention with his whole body. Lovett, holding her hand, big as a house himself. “It’s going to be wonderful,” she says. Her voice quavers, but her eyes don’t. “We’re going to hold our first baby soon.”

Lovett hears his pep talk in her words, and he’s grateful for it. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re gonna be parents. Leo and Pundit are going to have a sibling.” Emily laughs, wetly. 

“I miss them,” she says. They’re with Tommy and Hanna for the fortnight; they’ll be with Shomik when Lovett’s due. It doesn’t sound melancholy; it’s just a statement of fact.

Lovett smiles, and nuzzles up to her, rubbing his forehead against her hair. She laughs, one clear peal of it, surprised and happy. “Thanks, puppy,” she says, and reaches up to pet his hair.

Lovett sighs, and closes his eyes. He’s not going to get headspace-y right now, when all this is happening, but he can at least enjoy her fingers on his scalp, the way she’s treasuring him. The way they’re treasuring her, in their own ways.

Jon sets his timer on the next contractions. “Twelve minutes,” he says. “Not yet.”

“That’s okay,” Emily says. “We can wait to meet her.”

Lovett sucks in a breath; he hears Jon do the same. “Her?” Jon says, and this time it sounds like he’s crying.

“Yeah,” Emily says. They’re both crying. Lovett’s crying—fuck, all of this is a farce. He wipes his eyes, but he can’t make it stop. “Yeah, we’re—we’re gonna have a daughter.”

Lovett can’t press any closer to Emily than he already is, but he tries, and switches the hand he’s holding hers with so he can reach over and grab for Jon’s, too. “A daughter,” Lovett repeats. His chest feels too full not to burst. “Our daughter.” He can’t take it. He can’t— 

“Do you think it was the pink lingerie?” he asks, and gets a laugh out of them. It makes his chest loosen, a little. A daughter. _Their_ daughter.

Jon leans in and kisses Emily, gently, lingering and intimate. It looks the way holding their hands feels: personal, and familiar, and affectionate. “I’m so happy,” Jon whispers, leaning his forehead on Emily’s. “I’m so—this is—the gift you’re both giving our family, I can’t—” He stops, lost for words.

“Famous wordsmith Jon Favreau,” Lovett says, a time-worn joke, just to make them smile at him. “I’m happy too,” he adds, softer.

“Me three.” Emily’s voice is a wreck, but her face is glowing, now, with a kind of quiet joy Lovett’s not sure he’s ever seen on her before. “Me three, I’m—” She stops again, face pained, and they wait for her. “I want to meet her. I’m ready to meet her.”

“We will,” Jon says. His fingers are warm on Lovett’s. “There’s just this last little bit where it’s just us, first. Let’s have our last little bit.”

Lovett lays his head on Emily’s shoulder. Jon leans into them both, kissing the crown of Lovett’s head and nestling into the crook of Emily’s neck. They’re quiet.

They’re ready.


End file.
